


The Times that Try Men's Souls

by chainsaw_poet



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Angst, Canon Era, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, Late Night Conversations, Platonic Soulmates, Repressed Emotions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-03
Updated: 2013-05-11
Packaged: 2017-12-07 09:41:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/747061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chainsaw_poet/pseuds/chainsaw_poet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Combeferre took a deep breath. “When I arrived at the medical school this morning, a few students were talking in whispers about raids on several of the more radical cafés, and of students being arrested.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Friday, Midday

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Время испытаний](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6288241) by [rose_rose (Escargot)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Escargot/pseuds/rose_rose)



> I'm starting to post to force myself to stop me rewriting the bits I've already written and start writing the bits that I haven't. I'm hoping it doesn't play too fast and loose with historical accuracy...

_January 1832_

“I’m still not sure that your tutors will take my cold as an excuse for your absence from their lectures,” Joly said, cradling the drink that Bossuet had made for him a few moments before. The steam curled up from the mug in comforting swirls. Bossuet laughed, ensconcing himself at the foot of Joly’s bed, tucking stockinged feet under the layers of bedclothes.

“Probably not,” he confessed. “But if I were to abandon you for the for the law school, then who would be here to bring you tea and sympathy? Especially as the fair Musichetta will be at her sister’s for another week, if not more, she declares.” Bossuet dangled a sheet of note paper, covered in small, sloping writing in front of Joly, who extracted one hand from cocooning the cup to take it from him. He frowned as he read the letter, addressed to both of them and dated from the previous Tuesday.

“Apparently her sister and her new nephew are both in good health. That’s something, I suppose,” he muttered, trying not to sound too petulant. One couldn’t, in good conscience, resent the new born babe who clearly had his devoted aunt in raptures, even as she declared how much she missed Joly’s company. Or rather, one couldn’t admit to it. Joly handed the letter back to Bossuet, and yawned, rubbing at his sore eyes.

“Tired? You’ve not been awake long,” Bossuet said. Joly nodded.

“I didn’t fall asleep until it was almost morning. When I wasn’t coughing, I was trying to remember how one distinguishes between the sound of a pneumatic cough and a consumptive one.” Bossuet did laugh at this, but the smile that followed was sympathetic. Joly’s fellow medical students teased him about his hypochondria, the other Amis responded to his ailments with a mixture of comic exasperation and kindly tolerance, and even Musichetta’s patience was tried by the regularity, and the improbability, of some of his symptoms. Bossuet alone managed to treat all of Joly’s concerns with perfectly measured doses of humour and understanding; a cure-all which seemed equally effective against illnesses both real and imagined.

“Poor you,” Bossuet said, stroking his foot against Joly’s thigh in a comforting manner. Joly sighed.

“It’s not unexpected. I’ve felt as though I was coming down with something for days now – but yesterday didn’t help. Trust Enjolras to forbid me from taking an omnibus, and to order me to double back on myself at least three times in case I was being followed on a day when it did nothing but rain. Still, it’s partly my own fault. I ought to have had those boots mended weeks ago; I knew they were starting to leak, and getting one’s feet wet is a sure way to encourage a cold.” Joly sniffled, and lowered his eyelids as he took a sip from the tea, hoping to seem just pathetic enough to encourage Bossuet to shuffle to the other end of the bed. To his great satisfaction, it worked.

“Someone’s feeling rather sorry for himself,” Bossuet said warmly, allowing Joly to nestle into his broad shoulder. 

“I do feel awful.” Joly ventured another sniffle. Bossuet rolled his eyes and rooted through the bedclothes for a handkerchief.

“And there you were suggesting that I should have gone to my lecture. Whatever would have happened to you in my absence? You might have faded away.” 

“Don’t tease – when this becomes bronchial…” Bossuet winced and leaned away from Joly, as he blew his nose. “Oh, stop it. Even if this cold is of the contagious sort, you never seem to catch anything from me. I should be most concerned were you to share one of my colds; it would probably herald something dreadful. But perhaps I should be more concerned about you not catching them? It’s entirely out of character for you to have such good luck in matters of health.”

“I’m not sure about that. I often think it would be rather marvellous to have an excuse to stay in bed, and to have you at my beck and call, practising your doctoring on me.”

“But it would be just your misfortune for me to be ill at the same time,” Joly pointed out, sipping at his tea again.

“That might be better still. We might both lie in bed all day, doing nothing but drinking warm brandy and sucking lozenges, whilst reading the worst kinds of fiction.”

“You do make it sound almost pleasant,” Joly mused. “Only it wouldn’t be long before you spilt brandy on the bed, or placed the corner of a blanket too close to the fire. Or we should both be so busy nursing one another that we’d quite forget to, oh, I don’t know… To collect the post, and some vagabond would steal the banker’s draught that my parents send as my allowance, and then we couldn’t pay the rent and would be out on the streets. At which point our colds would turn pneumatic – or at least, mine would – and we’d be dead before we got the chance to give our lives for France. And it’s quite the most ignoble way to die - of a cold.”

By the time that Joly had finished his tale of woe, Bossuet was laughing uproariously, which had the effect of raising Joly’s spirits. Really, Joly thought, it wasn’t the worst thing in the world to have a cold, especially if the result was that Bossuet was going to spend the day trying to make him feel better. 

“You’re perfectly right as always,” Bossuet said, once he’d got his breath back. “Now, if you’ve finished imagining our immanent demise, there’s the rather pressing question of lunch – especially as you slept through breakfast.” A sharp tap on the window interrupted the conversation. 

“What on earth was that?”

“Someone’s throwing rocks at our window.” Bossuet gently moved Joly away from his shoulder and sat up slightly. “Street urchins probably. I told you that you ought to change your rooms at the end of the year.”

“I like these rooms,” Joly protested through a fit of coughing. “On the other side of the quarter, we’d have to move up a floor, and you get more space for your money here.” There was another rap on the window pane. “Again? They’ll break the glass at this rate.”

“Let me see who’s down there.” Bossuet climbed out from under the blankets, the sudden intrusion of cold air making Joly shiver. He walked over to the window and opened it. “Oi, what do you think – Oh! What are you two doing throwing stones at our window? Have front doors gone out of fashion?”

“Who is it?” Joly asked intrigued. Bossuet looked over his shoulder.

“Courfeyrac and Combeferre,” he said with a shrug. 

“Why didn’t they knock?” Joly swung his legs over the edge of the bed, before a sharp noise from Bossuet stopped him.

“You’ll get chilled. Back in bed,” he said. 

Joly smiled, eyes sparkling merrily. “Now, who’s worrying excessively about my health?”

Bossuet looked for an instant as though he might attempt a riposte, but instead he shook his head, resigning this victory to Joly, before directing his attention back to the street below, listening to shouts that Joly could not hear. 

“Of course. I’ll let you in,” he called down. He closed the window and crossed to the door. “They’re coming up. They seem rather concerned about something,” he added, heading for the stairs.

“Combeferre is always concerned about something,” Joly said, mostly to himself as arranged himself in a seated position. He tried again, vainly, to clear his nose - which, against all laws governing states of matter, seemed to be simultaneously stuffed and streaming – and tried also to ignore the dark knot that was beginning to form in his abdomen. True enough, Combeferre was always concerned about something; but, much as the Amis all teased him about it, it was usually a genuine problem that none of the rest of them had foreseen. And if Courfeyrac, who made a great show of pretending that his only concern was wooing the latest grisette to turn his head, looked worried too…

“You’ll find Joly in the bedroom – I assume you’ll forgive his state of dishabille.” Bousset’s voice carried through into the bedroom, interrupting Joly’s thoughts. Bossuet’s presence was preceded by that of their two friends, who did indeed look unusually anxious. They stood awkwardly just inside of the doorway, not removing their overcoats, as if they might need to leave at any moment.

“Had enough of trying to shatter our windows, then?” Joly asked, raising his eyebrows. Combeferre cleared his throat.

“Yes, well, that was Courfeyrac’s idea,” he said darkly. Courfeyrac threw his hands up in dramatic frustration. 

“It was a perfectly reasonable suggestion! At any rate, it’s what the heroes of popular fiction do when they wish attract the attention of their paramour without disturbing her strict parents.”

“You ought to stop reading the novels of your various mistresses,” Bossuet said, shaking his head kindly. “I expect that you successfully attracted the attention of the whole street, throwing stones at a window in broad daylight. And neither Joly nor I has a guardian bent on protecting our virtue – or if we do, they’re doing a terrible job of it.”

“We needed to be sure that it was only your attention we’d be attracting. We needed to be sure of what we were walking into.”

“Be sure of what you were walking into? Whilst I appreciate our living arrangements might sometimes verge on the unorthodox, knocking on the door is usually sufficient to announce one’s presence,” Bossuet reasoned, drawing out a chair for Courfeyrac to sit upon.

“That is,” Courfeyrac continued. “We weren’t at all sure what had happened to you.”

“What do you mean, what had happened to us?” Bossuet replied, seating himself on the foot of the bed and adding, “Combeferre, there’s another chair in the sitting room.” Combeferre nodded – rather grimly, it seemed – and went to fetch it.

“Well, you weren’t in our Roman law lecture this morning,” Courfeyrac continued. Bossuet actually laughed at this.

“Since when has that been a cause for concern? I forgo that lecture more often than I attend it. You’re not much better.”

“Actually, since Marius has been silently – and, I assume, inadvertently – taunting me by passing the bar, I’ve only missed one. All right, two,” Courfeyrac admitted.

“It became a cause for concern when I bumped into Courfeyrac.” Combeferre returned to the room, chair in hand. “He said that he had seen neither you, nor Bahorel, nor Enjolras at the law school this morning. And I mentioned that I had waited for Joly after his morning class, and but hadn’t seen him. I thought that the only thing you didn’t share with Lesgle, Joly, was his propensity for skipping classes – until now, it seems.”

“I’m ill.” Joly pouted. He was already put out that his health hadn’t been remarked upon right away, but his obvious illness ought to have checked Combeferre’s constant nagging about devotion to one’s studies; they couldn’t all have Necker internships after all. “I don’t just skip classes; I’ve been confined to bed since last night.” Despite hoping for at least a slither of sympathy, Joly wasn’t entirely surprised when Courfeyrac started laughing, although it seemed more like an expression of relief than one of pleasure.

“Oh, Joly. I’ve never been so thankful for your hypochondria,” he said.

Joly was about to protest that his cold was far from imaginary, when Bossuet asked, “Why were you looking for us both? You’ve never worried when I’ve missed lectures before, Courfeyrac. And you’re not even in Joly’s classes, Combeferre – you’d have been deliberately seeking him out.”

“Neither of you has left the house since last night?” Combeferre said warily. He looked meaningfully at Courfeyrac.

“No,” Joly replied, feeling nervous now. “Enjolras sent me to deliver a parcel to one of his safe-houses in the afternoon – don’t ask me what it was, he never tells me – and it was raining, so I came home with the start of this horrid cold. Bossuet had the landlady make us dinner. We’ve been here the whole time.” 

“Something’s happened, hasn’t it?” Bossuet said, suddenly and unnervingly serious. Combeferre and Courfeyrac looked at each other again, as if both wished the other one would begin talking. Inevitably, it was Combeferre who began.

“We aren’t sure, exactly,” he said, tentatively. “That is, something has happened, but we don’t know -” Combeferre took a deep breath. “When I arrived at the medical school this morning, a few students were talking in whispers about raids on several of the more radical cafés, and of students being arrested.”

“The same rumours were doing the rounds of the law school,” Courfeyrac added. “Nobody knew who’d been arrested, or how many, or even where the police had been – although the names of a few places were mentioned as strong possibilities.”

“There’s nothing in the papers,” Combeferre added. “There hasn’t been time.”

Joly felt Bossuet’s hand on his leg, and only then realised that he had not drawn breath for some moments. He tore his eyes away from Combeferre and Courfeyrac to look at Bossuet, who was ashen faced. Joly traced the tip of his toe into the small of Bossuet’s back, unsure if he was searching for or giving comfort; it was precious little, in either case.

“So that was why we were looking for you. To make sure…” Combeferre allowed the rest of the sentence to hang. He didn’t have to say any more.

“Did the police go to the Musain? Or the Corinthe?” Bossuet asked. Courfeyrac shrugged.

“Neither Combeferre nor I were at either last night, and we haven’t been there yet today – your rooms were the closest, so we came here first,” Courfeyrac said. “They weren’t mentioned in my hearing, but, as I said, no one knows for sure where the police turned up. But they wouldn’t be the first places I would have expected them to raid. The Corinthe doesn’t have much of a reputation – except for bad food. I’d never set foot in the place until Grantaire invited us there. The Musain’s a little better known, although still not very popular. For once, Enjolras’s neglect of fashion seems to have paid off. And I’m convinced that we’re the only ones who know about the back room.”

“What about Enjolras?” Joly asked, trying to suppress a quiver that had arisen in his voice. “And the others?” Combeferre swallowed hard and tried to look calm.

“We haven’t seen any of them. Of course, that doesn’t mean anything’s wrong; normally, it wouldn’t concern me in the least. And, as Courfeyrac said, yours the first place we’ve tried. But, Courfeyrac and I thought you might help us look for them?”

“Of course,” Bossuet said, standing up and fetching a jacket. “Just let me find my shoes and then we can leave. Joly, however, really isn’t well, and ought to stay in bed.” Joly sat himself a little more upright and folded back the covers.

“No, I should come,” he said, clearing his throat. “It’ll just take me a few…” Joly was interrupted by a particularly ferocious sneeze, which was followed by another, and then another. He groaned. “Urgh… Excuse me. As I was saying, just let me dress and I’ll-” But then Courfeyrac’s hand was on his shoulder.

“Who are you, and what have you done with Joly?” he teased, although his smile did not quite reach his eyes. “I ought to report you to the authorities for impersonating a medical student – and to the theatre critics for the ineptitude of your performance as _le malade imaginaire_. You are, however, doing a rather good impression of a man with a bad cold, who shouldn’t be running around outside, searching for friends who are probably quite all right anyway.” Courfeyrac’s last statement, however, seemed intended to convince himself as much Joly.

“Courfeyrac’s right, you sound awful,” Combeferre added, crossing to the bed and placing his hand against Joly’s forehead. His touch was somehow both reassuringly professional and quietly tender. He frowned, taking in Joly’s flushed cheeks. “Your temperature is a little high. And one ought not to encourage colds to turn into anything worse.” Combeferre stood up and shook his head, as if trying to chase out an irritating idea. “As if I need to tell you that. Much as I hate to flatter Courfeyrac by continuing his conceits, it seems I’m stealing your lines. Let us hope it’s not a sign of the times.”

“The world does feel a little upside down today,” Joly agreed, making a mental note to check his compasses later. “But I can’t just lie here. I want to help.”

“And I don’t want to spend the next month hearing about how dashing about in the cold gave you pneumonia, or typhoid, or rheumatism,” Bossuet said, although the hand he placed on Joly’s shoulder suggested that this wasn’t really his concern. 

“We can’t be paying visits to both prisons and hospitals,” Combeferre added darkly. “In any case, there is something you can do. We ought not to meet anywhere public tonight. If you stay here, I can send the others back to your apartment and we can have tonight’s meeting here; your rooms are the largest, at any rate. That way you can nurse your cold and be useful, agreed?” 

Joly scanned the faces that were all now staring at him. Against the combined forces of Combeferre’s stern doctoring, Courfeyrac’s inability to see anyone miserable, and Bossuet’s concern for Joly’s life and limb above his own, defeat was assured. Joly nodded, and made a strategic retreat back under the covers. 

“That’s decided then,” Courfeyrac said, giving Joly a tender pat on the shoulder. “Joly can guard the home front, and welcome back the lieutenants, and we’ll play the search party.”

As Courfeyrac and Combeferre headed back down the stairs, Bossuet hung back slightly, pretending to adjust his bootlaces. Once they were out of sight, he perched back on the bed and ruffled Joly’s hair.

“You’ve got everything you need? Do you want a book?” he said softly. 

“My head aches too much to read; I think I’ll just try to sleep.” Joly looked down and wrung the blanket between his hands. “I still think I ought to come. You really are the most contrary set of friends. Whenever I say I’m ill, you all say I’m not – and now that I say I’m fine, you make me stay in bed.”

“Oh Joly,” Bossuet said, taking Joly's hands in his own. “Won’t you give a man the one bit of luck that comes his way? Your cold is my perfect excuse to keep you out of trouble. I think that losing you would be the only thing I couldn’t laugh off.” Joly rubbed at his eyes, trying to scratch out the prickling in their corners; his cold must be making them sting. 

“Bossuet, you will – that is – do be careful, won’t you?”

“Always. I’ll be back soon, all right?” Bossuet smiled and kissed Joly lightly on the forehead. Joly forced himself to return the smile and nodded.

The room seemed colder in Bossuet’s absence, and Joly shivered as he buried himself deep into the bedclothes, trying to pretend that there was another body there with him. To feel so alone and so useless was quite unfamiliar; Enjolras, especially, was so good at making one feel as though one was part of something larger than oneself, and yet always absolutely necessary. Every man was needed by the cause; every man had to do his part. His head swimming with stirring words that didn’t quite all belong to Enjolras’s speeches, Joly was on the verge of getting dressed and going down to the streets, and never mind what the others said, when he suddenly thought of Bossuet returning to find their rooms empty, and changed his mind. 

When he had first moved to Paris and enrolled at the university, Joly had quickly discovered that studying medicine did nothing to assuage his nascent hypochondria and, in fact, only increased it. Worse still, his natural optimism seemed to desert him as soon as the night fell. He was used to being in a house full of siblings. Now, he was alone in his rooms, kept company by nothing but textbooks and lectures notes filled with endless lists of symptoms, all of which seemed to be his own - and Joly had discovered that it was terribly hard to fall asleep when one was convinced that one would die before waking. This period of insomnia had happened to coincide with his first anatomy classes – the difficulty of which was also a source of concern – and so Joly had developed a system to combat both of these problems simultaneously. On nights when his head was too full of disease and death, Joly would close his eyes and go through the names of every bone in the human skeleton, from the smallest toe up to the skull. It was a task perfectly designed to send him to sleep: being both dull enough to encourage drowsiness, but requiring enough just concentration to push other thoughts from his mind. Even on the worst nights, Joly was usually asleep before he got to the pelvis. 

Of course, before the quarter was out, Combeferre had interrupted him in the library to ask his opinion on the Saint-Simon essay he was reading; a conversation which had been continued the very next night in the Musain, under the watchful eye of Enjolras – although Joly did not know that at the time. And then there had been the back room, and discussions about topics that Joly had never before considered but suddenly found that he had opinions on, and friends more wonderful than he could have imagined, and – most surprising of all – he even passed his anatomy exam. His hypochondria might have remained, but his insomnia disappeared - replaced by Bossuet sleeping in his spare room – and, since then, Joly had not played the skeleton game.

That afternoon, Joly got halfway up the arm before anxiety finally gave way to exhaustion, and he fell asleep.


	2. Friday, 3pm

Joly woke up to the winter sun streaming through the window, and the sound of the front door closing. He blinked at the bright light, and realised that he must have slept for at least a couple of hours; his bedroom faced almost directly west and so only got the full sunlight in the afternoon. Stretching out his stiff limbs, Joly rolled over and immediately regretted doing so, as it sent a throbbing pain through his cheekbones. The nap didn’t seem to have done his cold much good; if anything he felt worse that before. 

Before Joly had time to determine exactly which of the scores of hideous complications that could arise from a cold had stricken him, he was interrupted by the sound of footsteps rising up from the stairwell; footsteps that were too light and too fast to be Bossuet’s. The unfamiliarity of the stride dispelled any last vestige of sleep, and Joly choked back a cough as he sat upright, listening as the key rattled in the lock and the door to his apartment creaked open.

“Hello?” Joly called, wincing at both the pain in his throat and the squeak in his voice. 

“Hello!” Joly relaxed as he heard a familiar shout, sinking back into the pillow with a relieved sniffle as Prouvaire leaned around the bedroom door. “Oh – were you sleeping? I didn’t mean to wake you. Bossuet said you’d be here, and he gave me his key so that you wouldn’t have to get up. I think that he’s sending the others over as soon as he finds them. Now, I promised him I’d mend the fire the moment I got in. Where do you keep the wood?”

“In the sitting room,” Joly said, rubbing his nose on the cuff of his nightshirt, and Jehan slipped back around the door with a smile and a nod. Joly clambered to the other end of the bed, taking most of the blankets with him; from there he could just about reach his chest of drawers, if he stretched over the brass railings at its foot. He was in the middle of drawing out several handkerchiefs when Jehan entered, carrying a few small logs and one arm, and a square parcel tied with a length of ribbon.

“How are you feeling?” Jehan asked, feeding wood to the fire, just as Joly blew his nose. Jehan giggled. “Oh dear, no better?”

“Not a bit,” Joly said through the handkerchief. “It feels like my head’s about to burst.” Rather than getting back into bed properly, Joly drew the covers around himself and leant against the wall, pulling his knees up in front of him. 

“Poor you. Colds are horrid things, and quite the dreariest way to be ill. You don’t get any beautiful fever dreams; just a stuffed head. Very unpoetic,” Jehan mused as he stoked the fire, causing Joly to smile in spite of himself. Only Jehan would imagine a cold as an aesthetic, rather than a physical malady.

“I’m afraid that I’ll be terrible company.”

“Oh, you mustn’t worry about that. None of us are at our best today, I imagine. That is, unless you’d rather that I went next door, and left you to get some more sleep?” 

“No, do stay.” The request came out a little more plaintively that Joly would have liked, perhaps because it was Jehan, whose wonderful openness seemed to render anyone around him incapable of hiding their own feelings. And Jehan, of course, understood perfectly. Whilst anyone else would have drawn up a chair, he hopped onto the bed next to Joly. “You’re all right, though?” Joly added.

“Perfectly. Bossuet found me in my rooms, half-asleep. I’d been working on some sonnets late into the night, and I hadn’t even heard what had happened.”

“And the others?”

“Bossuet said that he’d seen Bahorel, who was going to wait for Feuilly outside of his workshop. He said Courfeyrac and Combeferre were looking for Grantaire and Enjolras.”

“Surely Feuilly is all right? I thought the rumours were about students who had been arrested.”

“Without his cap, Feuilly passes quite well for a student. A couple of weeks ago, one of the Polytechnicians who attended Enjolras’s speech asked him whether he was reading law or natural sciences. Of course, Feuilly acted rather affronted, and gave the poor Polytechnician quite the speech of his own, all about education not being the preserve of the higher classes and the academy, and men being able to work with both their hands and their mind. But he looked very pleased with himself for the rest of the evening, and I think secretly he rather liked the mistake. But I’m sure he is all right; I don’t think Feuilly meets with anyone except us, and the other workers, of course.”

“How long ago did you see Bossuet?” Joly asked, trying to make the question sound as casual as possible.

“An hour and a half, perhaps, maybe more? I’ve rather lost track of time. Bossuet gave me a list of a few places to try on my way here – cafes that Bahorel and Enjolras have mentioned, that sort of thing – and I added a few others. I didn’t have any luck.” Jehan paused. “It was odd. Everywhere is so quiet – there’s barely anyone in the streets around the universities, and the cafes are half-empty. Oh, that reminds me.” Prouvaire edged himself forwards and dragged the parcel towards the bed with his toe, and then set it on Joly’s lap. “I bought you a present on my way. Probably entirely against doctor’s orders, but they always make me feel better.”

Joly untied the ribbon, and lifted the lid of the cardboard box to reveal a selection of _petits-fours_ : delicate puffs of golden pastry oozing chocolate and cream, and small cakes, coated with shiny pastel icing. They were quite the wrong kind of food for convalescence; far too rich and sweet, liable to upset both the digestion and the circulation. Joly, however, had slept through both breakfast and lunch, and, besides which, had never been much good at self-denial. In any case, they were very small treats, and one or two couldn’t possible hurt.

“Thank you.” Joly selected a particularly brightly coloured sphere of choux pastry and popped it into his mouth, where it swiftly melted into pistachio-tinted sweetness. Jehan laughed again as Joly gave an unconscious moan of pleasure, and licked cream from his lips.

“I shall tell the others all about this next time you’re strict with them about the proper food for convalescence, Doctor.” 

“Oh, I’ve always recommended pistachio cream as a cure for fevers. All the best textbooks note that it purges the body of unwanted humours,” Joly said, assuming a tone of perfect seriousness. Prouvaire looked like he was about to exclaim how marvellous that was, but then caught himself just in time.

“You’ve made that up,” he said.

“Entirely,” Joly agreed, joining in with Jehan’s laughter and giving him a friendly tap on the arm. “Come on then, tell me about your sonnets.”

On another occasion, it would have been a thoroughly delightful way to spend an afternoon; nibbling on pastries, and listening to Jehan talk about his poetry as he flitted about the room, speaking in hurried and excited tones. Prouvaire would illustrate his method from snatches of his own verse and extracts from anything that he could find from Joly and Bossuet’s bookshelves to serve his purpose – coaxing Joly into discussions over aspects of literature about which he knew nothing – leaving books scattered all over the room, open at various pages. 

At first, Joly found himself nicely distracted. But the sun kept moving across the window - a nagging reminder of how long it had been since Joly had seen Bossuet, or any of the others. After a while, it didn’t seem quite so lovely to be curled up in bed and eating sweet things, whilst your friends roamed the cold streets of Paris trying to find each other - or worse, were locked up somewhere where they couldn’t be found. He ought not to have let the others coddle him so; the guilt at being allowed to sit it out was worse than his cold. And underneath it all was the familiar gnawing anxiety; that the pain in his throat was more that could be attributed to a simply cold, that it his chest shouldn’t feel quite so tight, that his mild fever had risen dangerously; and worst of all, that his health wasn’t really what he was worried about at all. 

Joly must have missed one of Jehan’s questions when he was thinking about all of this, because suddenly, his hands were being squeezed tightly, and there was Jehan sitting next to him on the bed, looking at Joly with some concern. 

“Is it just your cold making you feel rotten?” he asked softly. “I’m not used to you being so sad. Is it because Bossuet’s gone? What would he do to cheer you up? Ought I to be making clever puns about your ‘l’s having being clipped?” 

The joke got a small smile out of Joly, more for its comforting familiarity than its humour. 

“There, now,” Jehan said, with a grateful sigh. “It’s not so bad.”

“Yes.” Joly forced out the syllable. “I’m sure it’s just the fever putting me out of sorts.” Jehan reached over to him, but rather than placing a hand on Joly’s cheek, instead tilted Joly’s head upwards so their foreheads could touch.

“You do feel warm,” he said, in the same low tones. “You ought to lie down. If I were you, I’d say that I’d been exciting you far too much – but then if I was you, you’d have to be me, and – oh, this is far too complicated!” 

It was impossible, Joly thought, not to join in with Prouvaire’s lyrical laughter. Jehan was a little smaller than Joly, and so much smaller than Bossuet, meaning that lying against his shoulder didn’t seem a very comfortable prospect. But he did have a very welcoming pile of blankets in his lap, and seemed very encouraging when Joly lay his head there, running his fingers through Joly’s hair.

“It will all be all right,” Jehan whispered, so quietly that Joly wasn’t entirely sure whether Jehan had meant him to hear at all. 

Their silence was interrupted by the sound of the front door opening and closing. Joly felt Jehan’s body tense beneath his own, and realised that he too had frozen. 

“It must be the others,” Jehan said, sounding not at all sure that it was. Joly nodded mechanically. Both stayed still and silent as two pairs of footsteps – neither of them Bossuet’s, Joly noted, with a pang – made their way up the stairs. Two sets of steps in perfect syncopation, with no voices accompanying them, that came to a halt on Joly’s floor and were swiftly followed by a knock at the door.

“I’ll get it,” Jehan said, helping Joly out of his lap. Jehan walked towards the bedroom door and then stopped. “I should answer it, shouldn’t I?” There was another knock, and then a familiar – wonderfully, blissfully familiar – shout.

“It’s us!” Courfeyrac’s voice, muffled only slightly by the door. Jehan sprang to the door, almost falling over his feet in the hurry, greeting Courfeyrac and Combeferre with an enormous smile and kisses on their cheeks.

“Oh, we knew it must be you, didn’t we Joly?” Jehan said, breathlessly. Combeferre raised his eyebrows, and smiled indulgently at Jehan as they entered the bedroom, which seemed to be doubling for a parlour – in keeping with the rest of the upside-down day. 

“Yes, the weary travellers return,” Courfeyrac said. He tossed his scarf and hat into a corner with casual abandon, adding, “ _A tes souhaits_ , Jolllly!" The sneeze with which Joly had been visibly struggling - perhaps inevitably - decided to retreat. Joly moaned in frustration.

“Urgh… Did you have to do that? My only wish is to be rid of this cold. Perhaps you could take it off my hands?”

“Not a chance,” Courfeyrac replied, as he sat down. “It must be a bad one. It seems to have divested you of your _ailes_ , as well as your ‘m’s and ‘n’s.” Joly could see that Courfeyrac was trying to act as though nothing were amiss, but his joke seemed a little half-hearted, and the smile that accompanied it did not extend to Courfeyrac’s eyes. There was an awkward pause, as the four of them acknowledged that they were avoiding an absence that had become a presence. It was Jehan who found the courage to break the silence. 

“Where are the others? Did you find them?” he asked timidly. 

“We found Grantaire,” Combeferre said, slipping out of his overcoat. “He went to an exhibition last night, and got invited by the artist to join him and his friends afterwards, so ending up spending the night at a party somewhere near the Porte St Martin. Apparently, he didn’t wake until long after midday, and said he only heard about the arrests when he went to get something to eat, at which point he made for the Corinthe.”

“Probably worried that they’d shut it down and he’d have to find another café owner to put up with his fits of melancholia,” Courfeyrac added. “He did at least tell us that the police didn’t go to the Corinthe. Although he said that Madame Hucheloup seemed rather shaken – to the extent that she tried to give Grantaire a talking to about young men who should know better than asking for trouble, but ended up weeping on his shoulder and extracting promises that we would keep ourselves safe, and that she had a cellar that was ours anytime we needed somewhere to hide out.” 

“Dear old Mother Hucheloup,” Joly said. “Her bread may be hard as rocks, but her heart is soft. Did Grantaire know anything else?” Courfeyrac shook his head.

“He mentioned a few other places he might try, and something about a less-than-honest copper that he knew, who might give him some information: for a price. He was rather secretive about it all, to be honest.”

“That might have been a good thing; I’m not sure it’s wise for any of us to know what he's up to. The less we know, the less we can tell – if it comes to it,” Combeferre said. “Besides, I’m not even sure how much of what he said was true. We are talking about Grantaire after all.”

“Ever the optimist, Combeferre,” Courfeyrac muttered. Combeferre did not rise to the bait.

“Grantaire did seem very keen to help though, so I’m not going to turn that down. Particularly as we still don’t know where Enjolras is,” he added heavily, sitting wearily in a chair. “We tried his rooms – twice, actually. Once just after we left you, and again before coming back here.”

“Have they published the names of those arrested yet?” Joly asked. Combeferre shook his head.

“No. And looking too eager to enquire might not be a sensible thing.” Combeferre accompanied his statement with a meaningful glance in Courfeyrac’s direction, to which Courfeyrac responded with a glare. Joly was beginning to suspect that the two of them were continuing a conversation from earlier in the day, to which he and Jehan were not privy. But before he could press Combeferre about it, Jehan was already speaking.

“Are you worried?” Jehan nestled at Combeferre’s feet, his back against the bedframe.

“Not yet,” Combeferre said. “Obviously, I’d be happier knowing that Enjolras wasn’t in a prison cell.” Another look at Courfeyrac. “But there’s no reason to jump to that conclusion just yet. It’s more than possible that he’s lying low until nightfall, when he can move around more easily. Enjolras is hardly inconspicuous at the best of times, and with the streets so deserted...”

“And he wouldn’t try to send us word?” Courfeyrac challenged.

“Not if he thought it might put the rest of us in danger,” Combeferre countered. Joly could see that Jehan was looking between the two of them nervously, and hoped that his own anxiety wasn’t quite so obvious. Courfeyrac must have noticed, however, because he glanced at both Joly and Jehan, before shaking his head and dropping the subject.

“At least it’s only Enjolras and Feuilly that we don’t know about. And Bahorel ought to be bringing word on Feuilly before long. Bossuet told us he’d seen the two of you,” he said, nodding towards Jehan.

“So you’ve seen him?” Joly said, with some relief. He hadn’t wanted to ask. It seemed selfish to be worried about Bossuet who hadn’t been arrested – unless his luck really had run out altogether – when everyone else was worried about those who might have been.

“Yes, about – is that really the time?” Combeferre exclaimed, peering at his watch as if to bring it into focus. “About an hour ago – around four. He was going to scout out the university library again, then meet with Bahorel and bring both him and Feuilly back here.”

“Our usual Friday evening meeting,” Courfeyrac said, his tone indicating that it was anything but. 

“And so what do we do now?” Joly asked. Combeferre sighed and crossed his legs.

“We wait,” he said.


	3. Friday, 6pm

They didn’t have to wait long before more footsteps announced the next set of visitors. And before they had even knocked, Courfeyrac had opened the door to receive Bahorel and Feuilly, who hurried inside, their cheeks rosy from the deepening cold. 

“Isn’t Bossuet with you?” Joly said, any pretence at nonchalance now fading quickly. 

“Haven’t seen him since this morning. Should I have done?” Bahorel said, rubbing his hands and moving closer to the fire. He glanced over to the bed, taking in Joly’s pink nose and flushed cheeks, and then turned to Feuilly with a grin. “That’s ten sous, you owe me; I said he really was ill.” Feuilly also examined Joly, and then rolled his eyes, dutifully reaching into his pocket.

“Sorry, Jolllly,” he said, catching Joly’s affronted expression. “But going on past form, it was a good wager.”

“Ah, but you haven’t known Bossuet as long as I have,” Bahorel said. “He develops this small twitch in his left eye whenever he’s actually concerned about something. Useful to know when you’re trying to beat him at cards.”

“I shall tell him never to gamble with you again,” Joly muttered, with an indignant sniff. “That is, if I ever see him again…”

“Your cold is making you melodramatic.” Courfeyrac abandoned his chair and settled down on the bed next to Joly. Despite the bedroom being more than a little crowded now, no one seemed to have any desire to vacate to the living room. “Don’t worry, Joly. I’m sure your Eagle is flying back to us as we speak,” he added, wrapping an arm around Joly’s shoulder.

“Bossuet left us around four and said he was coming to find you both,” Combeferre explained, polishing his glasses. Bahorel shrugged.

“I was loitering around Feuilly’s place from around half-past four -” Bahorel began.

“Yes, causing the foreman to ask all of us if we know who the stranger outside was.” Feuilly was now examining the spines of the books that had survived Jehan’s earlier sack of the shelving. He looked over at Bahorel and shook his head. “Subtlety’s not your forte, is it?”

“- and I didn’t see him,” Bahorel finished, winking at Feuilly. 

“Maybe he ran into Grantaire?” Jehan suggested. “Or perhaps he found Enjolras at the library after all.” 

“You still haven’t heard from Enjolras?” Feuilly said. 

“No,” Courfeyrac admitted. “And we looked all afternoon.”

“Well, these situations are often not as drastic as they seem,” Bahorel said, affecting the tones of a campaign veteran. “A few nights in the cells isn’t as bad some people will have you believe, and I speak from experience. Sometimes they just want to lock you away for a bit to shake you up and put the frighteners on you. I’m not sure the police are going to want to risk any questionable prosecution - remember this time last year? And Blanqui and his _Amis_ are, just this moment, doing pretty well in the courtroom from what I’ve gathered.” Bahorel chuckled to himself, but then he seemed to think of something else and he set his jaw, as if preparing for combat. “We oughtn’t to expect things to get any easier with the police - it was an unseasonably hot December, after all. It’s good though. It shows that Louis-Philippe is worried. And I read the other day that there’s cholera in London. If that crosses the channel, it’ll certainly shake things up.”

“Please don’t make Joly any more anxious than he already is.” Combeferre sighed and replaced his spectacles. “Bahorel, if you’ve warmed yourself up, might I have a word in the other room?”

“I wonder what they’re talking about,” Courfeyrac muttered, staring hard at the bedroom door which the two men had closed behind them.

“I think Combeferre probably wants some advice,” Feuilly said wisely. “After Enjolras, we all tend to look to him for guidance. It can’t be easy. And Bahorel has the most experience in this sort of thing.” 

“I offered him advice, and he didn’t want to hear it,” Courfeyrac said. “He accused me of being rash.” 

Joly exchanged a knowing glance with Jehan; the earlier exchanges between the two men suddenly made more sense. Joly couldn’t bring himself to disagree with Combeferre’s assessment. All the Amis knew that Courfeyrac’s tendency to act on impulse came from his generous heart and was both admirable and brave, but the courses of action that he advocated were not always advisable. Courfeyrac was impatient; he had a desire for immediate action that more than matched Enjolras’s own, and which Combeferre had, on more than one occasion, been forced to keep in check. Combeferre usually found ways to deflect Courfeyrac’s enthusiasm without denting his feelings, but that had clearly not been possible under the current circumstances. 

Feuilly, however, had not been present for their earlier exchange, and was thus unaware that Courfeyrac probably required a spell of quiet brooding to lick the wounds to his pride. And so, hating unnatural divisions above all things, Feuilly tried again. “You shouldn’t take his words to heart, Courfeyrac. He’s just anxious about Enjolras – we all are. Tempers are bound to get a little frayed.”

“I’ve managed to keep mine.” Unfortunately, Courfeyrac’s tone contradicted his words. “I don’t know why you’re taking his side on this, Feuilly.” 

“I’m not taking anyone’s side,” he said, a hint of terseness creeping into his voice and his eyes flashing as he met Courfeyrac’s stare. Feuilly was not bad tempered, but his feelings were quickly aroused and he had a highly developed sense of fairness. “In fact, I wasn’t even aware there were sides that could be taken. I’ve only just got here, remember?”

“Then perhaps you ought to keep quiet about matters that you clearly don’t understand.”

Feuilly coloured and clenched his fists. For Courfeyrac, who was usually so instinctively aware of the feelings and of others, and equally instinctively driven to preserve them, to aim for the jugular was almost unheard of. Indeed, Courfeyrac seemed only to realise quite what he was implying once the words had left his mouth. As he felt Courfeyrac’s hand clench around the fabric of his dressing gown, Joly was almost certain that Courfeyrac had not intended to score quite so palpable a hit. He only hoped Feuilly had better sense than to return the blow.  
.   
With unusually good timing, however, Joly’s nose chose that moment to rebel once more, and he sneezed again. The prosaic gesture seemed to stop the incipient argument in its tracks. Courfeyrac flinched and made an exasperated sort of sound, but nevertheless relaxed his hand and rubbed soothingly on Joly’s back, and Feuilly turned his gaze away from Courfeyrac and glanced at the fireplace.

“We ought to feed that fire,” he said, even though the logs were nowhere near burnt out. “I’ll fetch some more wood.” 

As Feuilly slipped out of the door, a snatch of the conversation from the next room floated in: Bahorel saying, “I’m sure he’s all right.” Bahorel’s tone was startlingly serious, giving Joly got the sense of how fearsome an advocate Bahorel might have made had he pursued the law with the fervour that he pursued his opponents in the boxing ring. Joly shivered. Courfeyrac eyed him with some concern and drew Joly towards him, rubbing his shoulder briskly.

“Are you chilled, Jolllly?” He sighed deeply, anger flooding out with his breath, then shook his head. “I’d have thought that my temper was hot enough to keep you warm.” Courfeyrac laughed without mirth and then bit his lip, staring at the bedroom door. “That was a rotten thing I said to Feuilly. I’m not sure what came over me. Seems I can’t do anything right today.”

Jehan made a soft, hushing sort of sound; the kind that one might use to comfort a fretful child. He folded his arms on the edge of the bed, and looked up at Courfeyrac through long eyelashes; under Prouvaire’s gentle gaze, Courfeyrac seemed to melt further, leaning so close to Joly that their heads touched.

“That’s not true,” Jehan whispered. 

“It’s easier to be sanguine when one’s own life is at risk, rather than those of one’s friends,” Joly added, with a sniffle. “No one will blame you for hot words which only arise because you are concerned about Enjolras. Feuilly knows that – and he’s quick to forgive, you’ll see.” Courfeyrac nodded and forced a smile.

When Combeferre and Bahorel returned to the room, Feuilly followed behind them, calm once more, but conspicuously not carrying any firewood.

“It is my feeling that we shouldn’t try to do anything tonight,” Combeferre began, leaning on the back of a chair, and speaking as if he were addressing an open meeting rather a group of intimate friends. “Not unless Bossuet or Grantaire returns with any definite news that forces us to act. In the morning, things may be clearer. Bahorel agrees with me,” he added, throwing another deliberate glance at Courfeyrac, who simply shrugged his shoulders. “The police have to interview anyone they’ve detained within twenty four hours, even if it’s just to ask their names; so we should hear something in the morning. If there’s no news by lunchtime, then we’ll decide together about going to the police station.” 

“And now?” Joly asked, because someone had to. 

Bahorel grinned and adopted a position vis a vis the other chair that mirrored Combeferre’s. “Now, it is my feeling that we ought to get something to eat,” he mimicked with a wink to Combeferre to let him know that the joke was kindly meant. “Not to mention something to drink. Joly, this is your patch – suggestions?”

“There’s a bakery around the corner that’s half decent; you’ll probably catch it before it closes. Left out of the house, and then the first left after that. I think there are a couple of bottles of wine in the sitting room.”

“Enough to start with at least.” Bahorel grinned and replaced his outer layers. Courfeyrac gave Joly a final pat on the shoulder and stood up.

“I’ll come too. I think I need a bit of cool air. We’ll take the key with us. Who has it?”

“I do.” Jehan pressed the key into Courfeyrac’s palm, holding onto Courfeyrac’s hand a little longer than required, and leaning his head towards where Feuilly stood near the doorway. Courfeyrac flushed and nodded gratefully. He turned towards the door

“Feuilly, I…” Feuilly smiled and raised his hand.

“Not necessary,” he said. “Especially as it seems that you and Bahorel are buying dinner.” Courfeyrac’s shoulders dropped with relief and he grinned broadly, before snatching up his coat and hat, and following Bahorel out of the door, squeezing Feuilly’s arm on the way out.

Combeferre, who had watched the whole scene, let his eyes drift after Courfeyrac, lingering on the door even after it closed behind him, then shook his head sadly and sat down heavily in the chair. Joly did not quite know what to do about their guide, whom Joly could not ever remember seeing so thoroughly worn out; Combeferre’s endless energy seemed finally to have been exhausted. He turned, instead, to Feuilly.

“That was good of you, Feuilly,” he said. Feuilly gave a generous sort of shrug.

“Courfeyrac wasn’t really angry with me,” he said. “He just can’t bear to think of anyone he cares about suffering. Or worse, suffering in a way that he can’t instantly solve. It’s difficult to begrudge an insult that comes from goodness.”

“But Courfeyrac is angry with me,” Combeferre said, taking off his spectacles and kneading his eyes with his palms. Feuilly shook his head and took up the empty chair.

“I think he’s angry with himself – or rather, with the situation.” But Combeferre didn’t seem to have heard him. With Courfeyrac, all the tension and fear had simply overflowed, a river of first anger, and then regret; a tide that could not be held back, even if anyone had tried. With Combeferre, however, the confession was a delicate and painful extraction, like pulling shards of glass of an open wound. His usually polished phrases shattered into jagged fragments.

“He doesn’t seem to understand that - that I want nothing more than to bang on the door of the police station - and to demand to know where Enjolras is being held - but that it would be the worst thing in the world to do. And Bahorel did agree with me…” Combeferre shook his head at though trying to rid himself of some terrible thought. “Or perhaps Courfeyrac is right, and Bahorel and I are wrong? It seems so… difficult to make decisions today.”

Feuilly leant over and placed a hand on Combeferre’s knee. This time, he did not begin to speak until Combeferre had met his gaze, and Feuilly was quite sure he had his attention.

“It’s now almost seven o’clock,” Feuilly said, as though he were laying out the propositions in a philosophical treatise. “And it seems to me that there are two choices: we go to the police station, or we stay put for the night. If we go to the police and find out that they’ve arrested Enjolras – well, then we know where he is, which is some comfort. But we certainly won’t be allowed to see him, and it will probably be tomorrow morning before we can engage representation for him. So in most respects, we spend an equally restlessness night. Or, we discover that he hasn’t been arrested and the upshot is that if the police weren’t already watching us – which I find difficult to believe – then they certainly will be. Either way, our position isn’t any better, and we might make it worse. On the other hand, if we wait until the morning and try to get some more intelligence before acting, we aren’t any worse off and we expose ourselves to less risk.”

Combeferre gave a weary smile. “That’s good logic.” He replaced his spectacles and sighed. “But I don’t know that logic will have much of an effect on Courfeyrac. He was quite ready to storm the prison walls on our way over here. At one point, I wasn’t sure that I’d be able to stop him.”

“That’s just Courfeyrac – always wanting to play the knight errant,” Joly said. “A bit of logic is good for him, although he doesn’t always realise it and he doesn’t much like the taste; it’s much like any other medicine in that way. Unfortunately, it usually falls to you, Combeferre, to give him the required dose.” He scrubbed at his nose with his handkerchief. “Does the metaphor work, Jehan? My head’s so stuffed, I can’t think.”

“It lacks a little colour, but it performs its function efficiently; precisely what I would expect for a man of science,” Jehan said. Jehan had resumed his position kneeling in front of Combeferre as he’d been speaking. Now he took Combeferre’s hands in his own, but – rather than the soft whispered he’d used with Courfeyrac – Jehan’s voice was strong and clear.

“I’m not sure that Enjolras could bear the thought that we had sacrificed everything we’ve worked for – and sacrificed ourselves – to save him a night in jail. Or even to save him from worse. I think it’s the only thing that might wound him; the thought that we doubted his capacity for sacrifice – because he’s never doubted ours, you see. And he keeps saying that we’re so close, and I think he’s right. There’s been a feeling since the summer, something crackling in the air, the streets are galvanized,” he added, looking over his shoulder to give Joly a quick smile, before turning back to Combeferre. “So, I think you’re right. I can’t reason like Feuilly – it’s just feelings. But I think you’re right, if it means anything.”

Combeferre tightened his grasp on Prouvaire’s fingers. “It means a lot, Jehan. Thank you.”

Feuilly sighed. “These are the times that try men’s souls,” he said. Combeferre jerked his head up.

“You’ve been reading Paine?”

“Enjolras lent it to me. He said that whatever Robespierre thought of him, I ought to read _The Rights of Man_. I ended up reading everything else as well.” Feuilly gave a shy sort of smile. “Is he trying to improve me, do you think?”

“Not just you. And I don't think he even tries - Enjolras simply improves people,” Joly said sagely. 

“My favourite part of the Paine comes later,” Combeferre said, soundly oddly wistful. ‘What we obtain too cheap, we esteem too lightly: it is dearness only that gives every thing its value’.” Combeferre paused. “I remember that I once thought self-sacrifice was the dearest price that one could pay…” He broke off, and Joly found himself thinking of Bossuet once more. Joly realised that he had only half understood what Bossuet’s words as they parted. That he although he had come to terms with his own death – which had, after all, seemed imminent for as long as he could remember – and even with Bossuet’s death, he had not truly considered what it would be to live without Bossuet, or without Enjolras, or any of the others.


	4. Friday, 7:30pm

“Look what we found on the street!” Bahorel called, bundling through the door. “A pair of dirty stop outs!” Behind him was Grantaire, who looked rather bedraggled, and – to Joly’s utter joy – Bossuet, who removed his hat and leant against the bedroom doorframe with something in between a sigh and an exhausted laugh.

“What happened? Why were you gone so long? Where have you been?” Joly asked, pulling a blanket around his shoulders and practically leaping off the bed.

“Let the poor man take his coat off, Joly,” Bahorel said chuckling. Joly ignored him completely, proceeding instead to fuss all over Bossuet.

“What on earth were you doing?” he asked, again. “Your hands are freezing – weren’t you wearing gloves?”

“Only at first,” Bossuet replied, as Joly began to rub Bossuet’s hands between his own. “I lost them between Jehan’s rooms, and finding Combeferre and Courfeyrac – and that was hours ago now. I meant to be back sooner, but after I’d tried the library, I ended up getting on the wrong omnibus to go to meet Bahorel and Feuilly, and it was several stops before I realised my mistake. I got off, and tried to correct myself, but somehow lost my bearings. I’d probably still be wandering the streets of Paris, if it wasn’t for Grantaire.” The story was tinged with Bossuet’s usual good humour, a laugh accompanying each successive mishap. Joly gladly shared in each of these, but there was a tiredness in Bossuet’s eyes that told Joly that his friend was very glad to be home.

“Quite,” Grantaire said, taking up the story. “Apparently, in the absence of our fearless leader, it has fallen to me to play the shepherd and herd home the lost sheep of your little flock.”

“If that’s the case, then we really are in trouble,” Bahorel quipped. Grantaire made a show of ignoring him.

“I found this hairless lamb in the backstreets of the Faubourg Saint-Marcel – Saint Marcel-called-Delphi, shall we have it, for it was there that I sought Apollo. But on this occasion, the gods were against me. It was a singularly hopeless errand, during which I found him whom I did not seek, bringing home Silenus, instead.”

“I can hardly claim to be your tutor in matters Bacchanalian, Grantaire,” Bossuet said, touching his head self-consciously. “Nevertheless, I am very grateful for your assistance.”

“And so am I – thank you, Grantaire,” Joly added. “Honestly, Bossuet, I had visions of you dead in a gutter, or lying in a police cell, or… Oh, not again-” Joly turned away from Bossuet, smothering a fit of sneezes into a corner of the blanket that was impressive enough to draw sympathetic exclamations from Jehan and a round of applause from Bahorel. All Joly really noticed, however, was that it also prompted a familiar, comforting hand on his shoulder.

“Seems I’ve brought the miasmas of Paris back with me,” Bossuet said wryly, petting Joly.

“This cold will be the death of me, I’m sure of it,” Joly mumbled between desperate sniffles, searching the pockets of his dressing gown for a handkerchief. Bossuet handed Joly his own, and guided him back towards the bed.

“As bad as all that, is it? Dear me. Combeferre, what do you recommend for a fellow doctor who is dying of cold?” Combeferre, who was bringing another chair into the bedroom, peered at Joly over the rims of his spectacles.

“I often find that, in Joly’s case, a little cheering company dispels the worst of his symptoms,” he said with a kindly smile, handing the chair to Bahorel. “Camphor might also help.” Joly grimaced and Courfeyrac, who had reclaimed his spot at the end of the bed, shuddered sympathetically.

“Horrid stuff. We had a nurse that used to force it on us for every childhood ailment.” He paused. “Still, you ought to take Combeferre’s advice. I may not like to admit it, but he’s usually right.” Joly watched as Courfeyrac and Combeferre exchanged looks contained more sincere apologies and more fervent renewals of friendship than words ever could. Bossuet must have noticed too, because he threw a quizzical look at Joly, who shook his head as a promise of later explanations.

“Camphor is at least better than a mustard plaster,” Jehan agreed. “They were my nurse’s favourite. I used to sneak in through the servant’s entrance if I’d got wet playing in the rain to avoid having one forced upon me. They smelt like brimstone.”

“My grandmother was the same. She swore by mustard plasters for every childhood illness,” Bahorel said. “I often thought the cure was worse than the disease.”

“Perhaps I can be of assistance once again,” Grantaire said. Reaching into his bag, he handed a bottle of brandy to Joly. “Courfeyrac said you were under the weather. I thought this might help.”

“Quite my favourite cold cure,” Courfeyrac said, eyeing up the label hopefully. “I imagine it also works rather well as a preventative. Joly, you are the expert in these matters - perhaps we all ought to take some?”

“That would certainly be my professional opinion,” Joly replied.

Combeferre raised his eyebrows. “Would that be as a doctor or a carousing student?” 

“You told both Bossuet and I to take brandy when I caught influenza before Christmas,” Joly objected.

“Because I thought it might calm your nerves, and because Bossuet looked like he needed a drink.” Combeferre sighed. “Having said that, I think we could all do with a drink right now.”

“Well, it’s a good job I care more for liberality than liberty, then.” Grantaire produced another two bottles. “Glasses?” 

“I’ll go,” Feuilly offered, looking expectantly as Bossuet for directions.

“There’s some in the living room, Feuilly,” Bossuet said. Feuilly nodded, and dragged Prouvaire with him into the living room. “We probably just about have enough, if some of you can manage with tea cups,” he added, glancing around the bedroom, which was now looking very full indeed. Having returned bearing tea cups and the few clean plates he could find, Jehan had lodged himself next to Courfeyrac at the foot of the bed, leaving just enough room for Bossuet and Joly to curl up at the head. Combeferre, Bahorel and Grantaire occupied the chairs, whilst Feuilly perched on the edge of Joly’s desk as he poured out measures into glasses of various shapes and sizes.

“Did you discover anything at all, Grantaire?” Prouvaire said. Grantaire’s sardonic expression left him for a second, replaced by one of genuine concern.

“Nothing of Enjolras,” he said, before schooling his features back into their usual scornful grin. “I made inquiries at every café and tavern between St Denis and the Gobelins- ” Grantaire looked up to meet Combeferre’s accusing glance. “Fear not, Combeferre; I was as stealthy as Lelantos and raised no suspicion. But your sublime leader seems to have quite sublimed from the streets of Paris; perhaps he has finally been consumed in by the fires of his revolutionary ardour and melted into air? But I did learn something. Popular consensus, however, has it that the raids took place at the Seven Billiards and the Café Lemblin. No one, of course, is willing to confess to having been there last night, or to venture as to who might have been in their company. Does that help your quest?”

“I’ve heard Enjolras mention the Seven Billiards, but not in a long time,” Combeferre said. “Courfeyrac – do you know anything? You’re better informed about the cafes than I am.” Courfeyrac allowed himself a brief moment of pleasure at Combeferre’s compliment, before responding. 

“I think there was another group that met there. Enjolras used to complain that they were foolhardy; said they ought to pay more attention to exactly who was attending their meetings. But you’re right; he hasn’t spoken about them in a while,” Courfeyrac confirmed. “Bahorel?” 

“I drop in whenever I’m in the area, although I can’t remember when that last was – before the Christmas break, certainly. There was a girl I quite liked that hung around there, but she shacked up with a Bohemian poet and disappeared.” He picked up half of a pie, and began to chew thoughtfully. “Enjolras was right though; the students who met there had rather loud voices, and very little caution. It doesn’t surprise me that the police turned up there – if I were Louis-Philippe, I’d be worried if they didn’t know about the Seven Billiards. But the Lemblin – well, that’s hardly a hotbed of revolutionary sentiment. Odd place to conduct a raid, that’s for sure. It suggests the police are working from the kind of hearsay that one could pick on street corner, mixed up with more than a little guess work. I’m not they have much that’s concrete.”

“Which might or might not be to our advantage,” Combeferre mused. “They may not have solid information on our activities, but we might be just as likely to be caught up in raids that take place at random. In any case, it doesn’t get us any closer to finding out where Enjolras actually is. When was the last time anyone tried his rooms?”

“Bossuet and I went on our way here,” Grantaire said. 

“Grantaire employed his silver tongue to convince the landlady to let us in. Made up some story about ‘poor Monsieur Enjolras’ having had his leg run over by an omnibus and being taken to the hospital, and explained that it was imperative that we enter his rooms to get the address of his venerable parents so we could send word to them. He was practically weeping,” Bossuet said. “It was rather clever, really.” Courfeyrac gave Grantaire a look of surprised praise.

“Quite inspired, Grantaire. You ought to write for the _Comédie-Française_. I, for once, would pay to see the look on the landlady’s face when Enjolras returns, hale and hearty,” he added, trying for confidence. 

“Nothing had been disturbed; the police haven’t been there,” Grantaire said, taking up both a bread roll and the story. “And the coat, waistcoat and cravat that he was wearing yesterday afternoon were all missing. Whilst Enjolras is not quite as fastidious in matters of dress as some of you” – he nodded to Courfeyrac and Bahorel – “even he draws the line at wearing an identical outfit on consecutive days. I’m almost certain he didn’t sleep there last night.”

“Which is not necessarily something to be concerned about,” Bahorel said quickly. 

“Indeed. Although it was useful that you apparently pay such close attention to Enjolras’s attire, Grantaire,” Bossuet added, and throwing a meaningful look at Grantaire, who merely shrugged and took a large gulp from his glass. “We thought about staying there to wait for him, but decided against it in case the police did turn up. We also took the liberty of relieving Enjolras of the carbine that he keeps in his desk drawer, the box of bullet casings hidden in one of his hatboxes, and some of his more seditious manuscripts. Although between his poor handwriting and his obtuse metaphors, not to mention the lack of literacy in the police, they’d have been hard pushed to make them out.”

“Nevertheless, that was probably wise,” Combeferre said.

“We did leave him a note - and another at the Musain. Nothing incriminating,” Bossuet added hastily, seeing not only Combeferre but Courfeyrac and Bahorel spring to chastise him. “I wrote that our dear friend, M. Joly was lying dangerously ill at his rooms in the Latin Quarter, and that all our friends were gathering around him, and that he ought to make his way over with the utmost urgency, lest his friend expire in his absence.” For the first time since that morning, all eight of the _Amis_ began to laugh. The sound was so wonderfully comforting, that Joly could barely bring himself to pretend to be offended by Bossuet’s note.

“I thought it was only the ultras that you mortally wounded with your pen,” Joly said, quite failing to pout between his giggles. “But now I see you are also injuring your friends. I need not fear the police, for apparently you are quite ready to sign my death warrant. Could you not at least be true to your name and wait until my funeral to compose upon my decomposition?” Bossuet laughed even harder.

“Oh, that’s very good – you must have been saving those up. A man with a stuffed head is never usually so witty. Nevertheless, let me reassure you that my pamphlets and newspaper columns are matters of fact, whereas this was pure invention,” Bossuet reassured him.

“Much like most of your ailments, Joly,” Courfeyrac quipped. Joly did pout at this. However, before he could respond with last remnants of his wit, Bossuet got in first with the less eloquent, but more effective reply of a kick to Courfeyrac’s shin. “Ow! What was that for?”

“In my absence, I expect that you have all been doing a fine job of teasing Joly out of his head cold – but now that I have returned, I must submit my prior claim to that role.” Bossuet’s smile was enough to let Courfeyrac know that any chastisement was mostly in jest, and he bowed graciously. 

“I only wish I had such a gallant protector,” Courfeyrac said, gazing very fondly on both Joly and Bossuet. “Jolllly did miss you terribly, you know. He tried to put on a brave face, but he’s quite incapable of hiding his true feelings. It’s really rather sweet.”

“The feelings were mutual,” Bossuet said, before quickly continuing so as not to let the scene descend into sentimentality. “Now, Joly, what would you like to eat?”

Seated slightly away from the rest, curled up at the head of the bed, Joly leaned into Bossuet’s shoulder and picked absent-mindedly at the food Bossuet had fetched for him, whilst the others continued to work their way through the bakery’s offerings and discuss what might be done tomorrow. “Grantaire knows a lot about Enjolras,” Joly whispered to Bossuet, who chuckled softly.

“Yes, he does. But he’s always been rather smitten hasn’t he?” He laughed again at Joly’s expression. “What? Don’t tell me you hadn’t noticed?”

“Something, perhaps – all that stuff about Apollo that he came out with earlier, that sort of thing. But I can never tell when he’s being serious, though.”

“He’s serious enough when he stares at Enjolras across the Musain. You must have seen that, distracted as you usually are with looking at your tongue in a mirror.” 

“You shouldn’t mock an ill man, Lesgle. I haven’t the strength to counter your blows,” Joly said, snuffling into his handkerchief. Bossuet stroked Joly’s hair and let his eyes wander back over to Grantaire

“It’s an odd sort of devotion. I’m convinced that Grantaire really doesn’t give a sou for Enjolras’s politics, and Enjolras is often rather sharp with him in return. But Grantaire hasn’t stopped hunting for Enjolras since lunchtime. He’s been round half of Paris, and come up with some rather clever ideas to boot. And it was thoughtful of him to bring the brandy.” He took a sip. “He’s not a complete wastrel.”

“No one’s ever said that,” Joly replied. “Even Enjolras is only hard on him because he believes that Grantaire could be so much better than he is.”

“Oh, I know. And Enjolras is right, of course. Only, I think that his methods need something supplementary; a carrot as well as a stick. Friendship, as well as education.”

“Grantaire is our friend,” Joly protested. “Or, at least, I consider him as such.”

“We enjoy his company because he is good humoured. We want him better than he is because we see goodness within him. But I’m not sure Grantaire really believes in our friendship, and without that, what can a man believe in? Just between you and me, I often think that the roots of Republicanism lie in friendship – we are _Les Amis_ , after all. How can a man be brought think of all men as his brothers, until he has truly felt another man to be his brother, and of his own accord? Perhaps if you and I extended the hand of friendship a little further to Grantaire – if we invited him for a drink, for example – we might see improvements.” 

Not for the first time, Joly thought that Bossuet was the wisest man that he had ever met. He looked over at Grantaire, who had decided to slouch against the chair, rather than sit in it. Grantaire looked as though he was really quite interested in the conversation that the others were having around him, but trying to appear as though he held everything that they said in disdain. Understanding why Grantaire would face the world with an ugly smirk was impossible for Joly, for whom almost every part of life held some particular joy, so much so that he found himself unconsciously going about with a smile on his face. But incomprehension did not preclude sympathy, of which Joly had plenty to spare. 

“We should,” he agreed. “He does after all have very fine taste in brandy.”

“Bossuet, if you could leave your _tete-a-tete_ with Joly, we’d rather like your opinion?” Combeferre’s voice dragged the two of them back into the conversation. “Do you know any good lawyers? You’ve been at the law school longer anyone else - except Bahorel, who seems to have sworn off knowing lawyers, as well as becoming one.”

“Don’t ask me,” Bossuet replied. “Any lawyer I recommended would be rendered instantly incompetent. The only one I ever employed lost me my estate. Surely Enjolras’s family have one? They send him enough money.”

“It’ll take time to send word to them in Bordeaux,” Combeferre replied. 

“For god’s sake, don’t write to them until you have to,” Bahorel warned. “Parents have a tendency to get irrationally upset at the disappearance of their offspring. Courfeyrac, weren’t you complaining about Pontmercy having passed the bar not too long ago?”

“Pontmercy? He’s a lawyer in name, I suppose, but to my knowledge he’s never had a case. Marius is a good sort when he’s not being utterly ridiculous, but I’d rather not let Enjolras be his first client.” Courfeyrac took a sip of brandy and shook his head. “If it comes to it, I’ll ask my father. He’ll want something in return, of course; buying favours from those he assists is a fine art with him. But whatever it is, it’ll be worth it. And Enjolras is always going on about the necessity of sacrifice.”

“I’m not sure he meant enslaving yourself to royalist relatives,” Grantaire drawled. “Besides, you’re expecting that the court allows him to give a defence.”

“I’m not sure it would be very helpful to discuss the alternative right now,” Feuilly said evenly. “Especially as he might not even be in jail. Perhaps he’s just lying low. We were all saying how quiet the streets are today, and Enjolras has all those safe-houses and contacts. Can any of you remember half the places he’s sent you with a box, or a letter?”

The comment sparked off an effort to list every place to which Enjolras had ever sent any of them, with Combeferre writing a list and dividing the locations between them, so they could set out first thing in the morning. Joly joined in at first, in the event that something other than a head cold might be gained from his errand last night. But worrying all day had been exhausting, and trying to shout over seven other enthusiastic voices hurt his throat, not to mention that he had to say each street name twice because of his cold. Eventually, it was just easier to lean against Bossuet and listen to the others make plans whilst getting pleasantly drunk. Joly was just losing the thread of the conversation, when he felt something bump against his thigh.

“I don’t suppose you have any ideas, Joly?” Courfeyrac asked. He was lying on the bed with his head next to Joly’s lap, peering up Joly through dark eyelashes and tangled curls, and he seemed to be about as tipsy as Joly felt. 

Joly glanced over to the others – all of whom were all kneeling on the floor, gathered around a map that one of them – Feuilly probably – had sketched on what looked like the back of Joly’s surgical clinic notes. 

“Are they working out an escape route from La Force?” Joly said, squinting at the drawing.

“No, they’re preoccupied with trying to remember the address of that printer we used last summer, Monsieur Guerin,” Bossuet said, over Joly’s shoulder. “Personally, I think they ought to listen to Grantaire. He was definitely not next door to the Café Serval.”

“I never went there, so I don’t have a clue,” Courfeyrac added, suddenly furrowing his brows. “Are you all right, Joly? You’ve been quiet for a while.”

“Oh, er, yes, I’m just…” Joly gave a stuffed sort of snuffle and sighed. “It’s nothing really, except that this cold is miserable, and we still don’t know where Enjolras is, and I feel utterly useless.” The words had slipped off Joly’s tongue before he’d realised it; either the fever of the brandy was to blame, not that it made much difference which. "I'm sorry, I'm not usually so prone to melancholy. Perhaps there's a thunderstorm approaching." 

“I think we all feel a bit useless,” Courfeyrac said, giving Joly’s leg a comforting pat. “I certainly do, anyway. And Combeferre is caught between trying to work out what Enjolras would do, and what he himself thinks is best to do – in short, he’s trying to have the debates that he usually has with Enjolras with himself, which even harder to do than it is to explain, I should imagine. Even Bahorel looks a little stunned, and I was of the opinion that nothing but a croquet mallet to the skull could knock him out. I mean, I know Enjolras is our leader, but I’d always supposed that if anything happened to him, we all could, you know, carry on. He's always saying that what we're trying to do is bigger than any of us; bigger than any man at all. But we can’t carry on, can we? We’ve done nothing but bicker and squabble all day, and we’ve gained nothing form our efforts except sore feet. We need him.” The brandy had clearly loosened Courfeyrac’s tongue as well, and he bit his lip and nestled closer to Joly’s leg, curls falling over his eyes.

“Of course we need him,” Bossuet said, reaching over to rub Courfeyrac’s shoulder. “But you mustn’t be so hard on yourself. All right, you’re not Enjolras; none of us are. But we’ve got together a meeting – of sorts - and we’re all working together – even Grantaire’s working towards something, which Enjolras would consider a minor miracle, if he believed in such things. And I’m not sure I’ve ever seen Prouvaire less distracted by the stars. Take a look; I think Enjolras would be proud of our efforts.” Courfeyrac rolled over and looked at Jehan, who was disputing the location of the printer’s shop with Bahroel. He was prodding at the sketch-map with a vigour not usually displayed, when he happened to catch Courfeyrac’s eye and blushed.

“What are you three whispering about?” Jehan said, picking up a bottle and clambering over the bed to top up their glasses. “Is Jolllly telling you what a terrible nurse I was?”

“Of course not. Besides, you were wonderful. Jehan bought me pastries,” Joly said.

“Pastries?” Courfeyrac spluttered. “When I had that bout of fever last summer, you wouldn’t let me have anything except gruel and broth for a whole week afterwards! And now I hear you’ve been eating pastries with Jehan!”

“It would have been rude to refuse a present,” Joly reasoned, stifling a yawn. “Anyway, I think there are a few left, wherever they’ve got to.” Courfeyrac rolled off the bed in search of the remaining confectionary, enlisting Jehan to help. Joly took the opportunity of a more space on the bed to adjust his position in relation to Bossuet, lifting the other man’s arm and wrapping it around his own shoulder.

“Do you want to lie down in my room and get some more sleep? It’ll be quieter in there,” Bossuet said, softly. “No one would mind.” 

“No, no. I’ve slept most of today. Besides, I ought to contribute something to our plans.”

But the room was very warm with eight bodies in it, and Bahorel kept adding more wood to the fire, and Jehan and Courfeyrac seemed determined to keep his glass topped up. Joly tried hard to keep up with the conversation – which flitted, as drunken conversations were wont to do, from subject to subject, with little regard for logical connection - but his head and eyes felt terribly heavy. His thoughts kept drifting between odd images of Enjolras, sitting in a corner of a darkened room in a place that Joly had never seen before, and Musichetta, lazing in some idyllic pastoral meadow (which, the rational side of Joly knew, would not in the least resemble her brother-in-law’s small holding), singing softly to a baby that she rocked in her arms. Half-asleep and half day-dreaming, he didn’t notice that the topic of discussion had changed entirely until he realised that Feuilly was asking him – for the second time, apparently - about borrowing a book, and the others were staring at him, waiting for him to answer.

“Oh, yes. Of course, as many as you like.” Joly yawned and sniffled. Bossuet’s arm tightened around him and he whispered into Joly’s ear, the others began talking once more.

“I can ask them to go, if you like?” 

Joly shook his head. “No, I don’t mind.” 

Bossuet laughed. “Good, because I think everyone might have had a little too much brandy to get home. You missed Feuilly’s fine speech about how restrictions on assembly can be usefully compared to the partitioning of Poland. It was very persuasive. In fact, I’m now convinced that any issue can be usefully compared to the partitioning of Poland. Feuilly’s a rather good speaker; when the day comes, we’ll have no fear about the workers rising to support us with him on our side.”

“I think you’ve had a little too much brandy too.” Another yawn. Another squeeze.

“Almost certainly. Are you sure you’re comfortable lying like that?”

“Mmm… think so. I don’t have the energy to move anyway. I’ll ache terribly in the morning, of course.”

“Of course.”

Bossuet added something else, but Joly missed it as he let his eyes drift shut. A few moments later, he was vaguely aware of a cool hand pressing once again against his forehead – a touch that was both practised and soothing. And, then there was Combeferre’s voice above him, and Bossuet saying something like, “Let him sleep it off”, and Musichetta, again with the baby - although she couldn’t possibly have been there, so he must have fallen asleep - and then nothing at all.


	5. Saturday, 7am

Joly’s first thought, as he shut his eyes once more against the morning sunlight, was that one of them should have remembered to draw the curtains last night. The heavy cloth of a waistcoat on his cheek, rather than the soft linen of his pillow case, reminded him that he’d fallen asleep on top of Bossuet, which provided an explanation as to why his left shoulder felt quite so stiff. But otherwise, he felt a little better. The aches in his muscles seemed to stem from his unorthodox sleeping arrangements, rather than from any fever, and he no longer felt either uncomfortably hot or oddly shivery. His nose, however, was still completely stuffed, and made worse for having lain on one side all night. Joly tried to clear it by sniffing, which only made him cough. 

And it was then, as he sat upright in an effort to both catch his breath and stifle his coughing fit, that Joly noticed that his friends were all asleep in his bedroom. 

Courfeyrac and Jehan were curled up, cat-like, at the end of the bed. Perhaps in an attempt to keep both of them in the bed, Courfeyrac’s arm was slung loosely around Jehan; his head was buried in Jehan’s neck, and strands of their fair and dark hair mingled together. Combeferre was lying by the now-dead fire, wrapped up in a pile of blankets, with a cushion from one of the chairs in the sitting room tucked under his head. Without his spectacles on and in deep slumber, he looked rather boyish, and the corners of his mouth would twitch occasionally, as if he were grappling with a trying mathematical problem in his sleep. Grantaire was slumped against the bookcase, snoring softly, head lolled forward, and covered with several coats. Bahorel and Feuilly lay top-to-toe on what looked like the mattress from Bossuet’s bed, which, at some late hour, it must have seemed prudent to drag into Joly’s bedroom. 

The rest of his bedroom was in chaos. Various item of clothing were strewn around; scarves, coats and hats littered the floor and furniture. The two chairs that had been brought through were upturned on his desk – presumably to make room on the floor - and half the contents of the book shelf seemed to have been scatted about the apartment. But it was a very convivial sort of chaos, and waking up feeling like one had done three rounds with Bahorel suddenly seemed a fair trade. 

Joly needed to blow his nose, and very much wanted something warm to drink. He thought about waking Bossuet, but after seeing how peaceful Bossuet looked when at rest, Joly found that he didn’t have the heart to do so. Besides, waking Bossuet would mean waking everyone else which would, quite rightly, stir them all to action. And they had all been so anxious yesterday - who knows how long they had stayed up talking and planning. Another half an hour wouldn’t hurt. They ought to make the most of peace when they could; it seemed as though it would be scare in the days to come.

Sighing, Joly forced his stiff muscles to shift, and wrapped the blanket that Bossuet must have tucked over him around his shoulders. Then, he carefully picked his way around the sleeping bodies that lay between his bed and the doorway. The landing was pleasantly cool after the somewhat stifling air of the bedroom, and the faded beams of sunlight that came askance through the window promised a pleasant enough Saturday. Joly had just pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of his dressing gown, when he turned towards the living room and saw him.

Enjolras was sitting one of the arm chairs, perfectly motionless, save for the barely perceptible rise and fall of his ribs that accompanied each breath. He was leaning forward, with elbows on his knees, and his hands steepled under his chin. His eyes were lowered, fixed on a point on the floor in front of him; he looked almost as if he was praying. The muted morning sunlight made his skin look so pale that it was almost luminous, and its beams tangled themselves in the strands of his long fair hair, spinning it to gold thread. 

Like any good doctor, Joly held the human body in great awe. It was an intricate machine. Its magnificent capabilities were only matched by the frightening ease with which the whole system could be made to collapse - for reasons, he realised more clearly with each day of his studies, of which even the finest of his professors had very little understanding. Joly’s wonder at the human body, however, rarely ventured into the aesthetic realm. Close contact with corpses increased his fascination with the body as a system, but watching it decay and die distanced it from the ideals of art; real living bodies, and especially real dead bodies, bore little resemblance to the nudes in salons, or the marble statues in museums. Joly could count the occasions on which he had been overwhelmed by human beauty on two hands: the smooth skin of his mother’s neck when she’d held him as a child; Bossuet, illuminated by the streetlight outside their apartment, on which he was leaning, smiling despite having lost his keys; Musichetta, staring up at him as she lay beneath him, her lips parted ever so slightly - an invitation to be kissed. 

But, Joly concluded, in the grey light of morning - lost in his thoughts and oblivious to all around him - Enjolras was beautiful. 

“You’re here.” Joly’s voice was barely more than a whisper as he stepped into the living room. Enjolras jerked his head upwards, blonde waves falling back from his face. His eyes softened as he saw Joly, and he stood up.

“I am indeed,” he replied. Now that Enjolras was standing, and that the spell of the first sight of him was dissipating into the cool morning air, Joly could examine him better. Although no less beautiful for it, Enjolras looked exhausted. Shadows were beginning to form under his eyes, and there was a smudge of dirt across his left cheek. His shirt was open at the collar, with the left-side having come half untucked: all easily visible under his open jacket. The absent cravat was stuffed in his jacket pocket, the tip of it peeping over the edge. To Joly’s mind, he needed a bath, a hot meal and lot of sleep. For the moment, however, he kept such thoughts to himself.

“Everyone’s been frantic,” he said instead, joining Enjolras in the sitting room. “They hunted all over Paris for you.”

“I’m very sorry,” Enjolras said, tilting his head and looking genuinely regretful. “That was never my intention. Events rather overtook me. I should have been better prepared.”

“How long have you been sitting here? You ought to have woken us.”

“Not long. I don’t think your landlady was very happy at being roused so early, but I showed her Bossuet’s note and she let me in. That was quite resourceful by the way, his cryptic message; I’m glad that he attends to my lectures more closely than those of his law professors.” Enjolras gave a weary half-smile, which Joly returned with interest. “I looked around the door and you were all asleep. It seemed a shame to wake you.” 

“But you weren’t arrested?”

“Not this time.” Joly would have pressed Enjolras further, had his cold not decided to make its presence felt once more, in the form of a coughing fit that left his eyes and nose streaming. 

“You’re actually ill?” Enjolras asked, sounding surprised. “I didn’t realise. I though that Bossuet was making that up.” 

“Well, I suppose that’s better than thinking that I made it up, which is what usually happens,” Joly said breathlessly, turning away to blow his nose. He looked back over and saw that Enjolras wasn’t smiling at his joke. Instead, he looked rather concerned. “It’s just a bad cold, and I suppose all colds are bad – or at least, I wouldn’t know what a good one looked like. And I think I’m over the worst of it, although one never can be too careful in these matters. A friend of my father’s thought he was rid of a cold, and then died two days later of a heart attack; I was always sure that the two were connected. Perhaps I ought to have Courfeyrac listen to my chest?” Enjolras shook his head, eyes brightening.

“I’m not sure that’s necessary. You sound like yourself, at least,” he said. It was as close as Enjolras ever got to teasing, and Joly took it in good spirits.

“Perhaps it helps that my health as been the least of my worries for the past twenty-four hours. Your wellbeing rather preoccupied us all. Speaking of which, you look exhausted – sit down again, won’t you?” Joly half-forced Enjolras back into his chair. "I ought to wake the others. Can I fetch you some tea? I was just about to make a cup.”

“Might I clean myself up a little first?”

“Of course. I’m sure I can find a shirt that will fit you. Just let me-”

Joly was interrupted by an extremely theatrical sneeze coming from the bedroom next door, followed by an equally dramatic groan. “Urghh… Damn you, Joly. You’ve given me your cold.” Courfeyrac’s lament was followed by a series of rather exaggerated sniffles. “I feel hideous. Prouvaire, get off my arm, will you? It’s gone to sleep.” Another groan from Courfeyrac was followed by a squeaky sort of exclamation and then a thud, which was doubtless Jehan hitting the bedroom floor. Joly turned away from the noise to look at Enjolras who was now smiling broadly.

“Hush, Courfeyrac. You’ll wake the others and inflame your throat for good measure.” Combeferre’s voice was low, but steady and clear. 

“Too late.” This was Feuilly, who punctuated the sentence with a yawn. “Did someone fall on my foot?”

There was a shuffling sound as someone stood up. It was probably Combeferre because he spoke again, footsteps pattering over the floorboards. “It’s probably a good thing; we can’t lie around today. Joly’s already awake, I see. What time is it? We ought to get…”

Combeferre was fiddling with his pocket watch as he stepped through the doorway, meaning that he took two paces towards the sitting room before he saw Enjolras there, with Joly standing beside him. Combeferre stopped dead for a second, as though he couldn’t quite believe was he was seeing, or didn’t want to believe it too quickly, in case it turned out to be a beautiful, painful mirage which would disappear if he got too close. He blinked twice, and then, when Enjolras had not yet vanished, Combeferre finally allowed himself to smile.

“Oh,” he said, eloquence, for once, deserting him.

“Good morning,” Enjolras replied. His voice was soft but firm as he stood to greet his friend. “It’s good to see you, Combeferre.”

“What is it?” Courfeyrac’s voice, roughed and lowered by the onset of a cold, carried through from the other room.

Combeferre turned his head over his shoulder slightly. “He’s here,” he said, simply. 

Nothing more needed to be said. There was an instant of complete stillness, followed by a scramble of footsteps and a cacophony of voices as the rest of the Amis rushed through the door. Courfeyrac got there first, enveloping Enjolras in an embrace so heartfelt that its warmth seemed to flood the room, and Combeferre’s eyes twinkled behind his glasses as he caught Enjolras’s surprised expression over Courfeyrac’s shoulder. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever been so glad to see anyone in my life,” Courfeyrac said, half into Enjolras’s hair. “I barely slept for picturing you rotting in La Force. I’m probably gained several grey hairs as a result. I’m never letting you out of my sight again.”

“Nor out of your embrace, it seems,” said Enjolras, gently prizing Courfeyrac from him. 

No sooner had Enjolras recovered from Courfeyrac’s display of affection then he was slapped heartily between the shoulder blades by Bahorel, who loudly declared that he hadn’t been worried for a second. Feuilly settled for a handshake and a smile, and Jehan silently, fervently pressed his arm. They all seemed to want to touch Enjolras, to make sure that he wasn’t a ghost, to be certain he was formed of flesh and bone – to the extent one could be certain of this in Enjolras’s case.

“So, it seems you found him after all, Jolllly,” Bossuet said, elbowing Joly in the ribs and directing a nod and a smile towards Enjolras.

“And didn’t think to inform the rest of us,” Combeferre said, as Courfeyrac gently pressed Enjolras back into the chair.

“I’d barely been here two minutes!” Joly protested, punctuating the statement with a disgruntled sniff. 

“He was just about to wake you,” Enjolras said. “I'm sorry that you were concerned for my safety, and I apologise for not sending word, but I was not certain that I could do so without endangering the rest of you. Having only just escaped the Seven Billiards, it did not seem prudent to venture out into the streets again until late last night. Of course, I had no idea what had happened to any of you; I feared that the police would be searching your rooms. But it seems I was right to trust that you would all find one another.” He smiled and pressed Courfeyrac’s hand, which was still resting on his shoulder.

“What were you doing at the Seven Billiards?” Bahorel asked, at the same times as Courfeyrac said, “So, you weren’t arrested?”

“I spent yesterday asking myself the same question. I received a letter asking for a meeting there through a gamin; it signed with the name of an associate whom I trusted. But several others known to me were also there, having received similar letters, and I’m beginning to think that – Well, we can discuss my thoughts later. I’m afraid we’ve lost some good allies. But, no. I wasn’t arrested - and no, I can't tell you where I was hiding. It would put others in danger. I’m not hurt, Combeferre,” he added, patting away Combeferre’s hand, which was reaching towards the smudge on his cheek.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Combeferre replied, sternly.

“Of that I have no doubt.” Enjolras raised his eyes to the far side of the room. “Hello, Grantaire. I was rather surprised to see you asleep with the others.”

Grantaire alone had not rushed to greet Enjolras, and had instead lingered by the doorway. But Joly, not forgetting what Bossuet had said last night, had watched Grantaire fix his stare on Enjolras, his dull, sunken eyes filled with a desperate longing, not altogether disguised by the scornful curl of his lip. It was an odd expression, and one which Joly could not precisely define. Nevertheless, he could guess its import well enough to hope that Enjolras remained as unaware of its meaning as he appeared to be – painful as that must have been for Grantaire himself. Now, upon being addressed directly by Enjolras, Grantaire lips twisted into their habitual sardonic smile as he ventured closer.

“Surprised to see me collapsed in a drunken heap? I can hardly believe my ears. Do I dare I hope that your opinion of me is improving, that the Gods have finally deigned to glance down from Olympus and smile on me?” It was an awkward phrase, not quite sarcastic enough to be meant in jest.

“Grantaire was very helpful actually, didn’t you say, Bossuet?” Courfeyrac said, quickly and lightly, clearly trying to prevent the moment of reunion being tarnished as he took a seat on the sofa. 

“Yes, very,” Bossuet agreed, taking up a position at its other end and pulling Joly down in between them, thus leaving the rest of the _Amis_ to make do with the rugs on the floor. “Not least in rescuing me from the labyrinth of Saint-Marcel, and persuading your landlady let us in, Enjolras, and thus allowing your front door to remain on its hinges.” 

“Both my door and myself are very grateful, I’m sure,” Enjolras said. “Thank you, Grantaire.”

“I should be the one who is grateful,” Grantaire said. He looked as though he were about to commence an oration on the subject, and Joly threw Bossuet a look of some trepidation. But with timing that was a little too good to be coincidental, Courfeyrac was overcome with a hacking cough that drew everyone’s attention towards him.

“That sounds nasty,” Joly observed.

“You might have found Enjolras, Joly,” Courfeyrac rasped, sniffling so loudly that Combeferre rolled his eyes and thrust a handkerchief at him. “But that doesn’t absolve you from giving me your cold.” 

“You just as likely caught cold by spending all day in the freezing cold yesterday,” Joly objected. “Especially as you were probably dashing about and overheating yourself at the same time. Everyone knows that’s certain to make a person ill.”

Courfeyrac blew his nose, apparently wishing to convey exactly what he thought of Joly’s reasoning, and then pouted. “Why did I catch it and not Bossuet? He lives here, for goodness sake - and you spent all night lying on top of him.”

“Oh, I never catch any of Joly’s illness,” Bossuet said nonchalantly. “The day I share one of his colds it will be the death of us all.”

“Stop complaining, Courfeyrac. If it is contagious, we shall doubtless all have it by the end of the week,” Combeferre added.

“I think it’s already doing the rounds,” Feuilly said, inclining his head towards Prouvaire, who was trying to sniffle inconspicuously into the sleeve of his jacket. 

“No! I’m fine!” Jehan’s protest might have been more convincing had his voice not broken into a painful speak on the last syllable. Joly winced in sympathy.

“Sorry, Jehan. I shall repay your kindness by bringing you pastries – and you too, Courfeyrac,” Joly added, pre-empting Courfeyrac’s inevitable protest against Joly’s unfair treatment. “That is, if Bossuet and Combeferre ever let me out of the house again.”

“You do sound a lot better this morning,” Bossuet said. “And if Enjolras managed to escape being jailed, then it’s probably only fair that you should too.”

“Wrap him in a scarf and he’ll be fine,” Bahorel said. “Nothing like fresh air to restore one’s health.”

“Finally throwing over the law for medicine, are we?” Grantaire asked, wryly. “And there is nothing like fresh air in Paris.”

“Joly might be fine, but what about me?” Courfeyrac whined. “I’m supposed to be meeting this charming red-haired dancer tonight. It took more than two weeks to convince her to have dinner with me, and now, I shall either have to cancel, or hope that she’s the nurturing type. It’s damned difficult to seduce a woman with when one has watering eyes and dripping nose. How you’ve kept your Musichetta so long, Joly, I shall never know.”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to cancel anyway.” Enjolras’s clipped tones cut through the chatter, and eight pairs of eyes fixed themselves on him. “We need to meet this evening.”

“Of course,” Courfeyrac said, suddenly solemn. 

“Whatever the police were up to on Thursday night – and I have my suspicions – things are getting more serious,” Enjolras continued. “We can’t to expect this to be the last time they try such techniques; we shall need to take better precautions, and to plan what we shall do if this happens again. And we have to expect that things will move faster from now on. We don’t want events to outrun us. We must be prepared.” Combeferre placed a hand on his lap.

“Much as I agree about the meeting, I expect that you haven’t eaten or slept properly since Thursday and it is now Saturday morning,” he said firmly. “Food and rest must come first.”

“I had hoped to discuss some things with yourself and Bahorel,” Enjolras replied.

“Which can be done over breakfast,” Bahorel said.

“Perhaps Courfeyrac ought to join us?” Combeferre said, hesitantly. Their dispute from yesterday was clearly still playing on his mind. 

“It’s not necessary,” Courfeyrac said, his eyes more serious than his tone. “I trust your judgement absolutely.” Combeferre did not blush, but a hint of colour appeared on his cheekbones.

“Thank you,” he said. Enjolras looked puzzled by the exchange, but shook his head, perhaps writing it off as another facet of the human condition that escaped his comprehension. Joly smiled to himself, and felt Bossuet squeeze his hand.

“When are we meeting?” Feuilly was on his feet. “It’s just that I have to get to work; no rest for the wicked,” he added, looking a little embarrassed. “Sorry to break up the party, and all.”

“No, we all ought to be leaving,” Courfeyrac said. “Joly and Bossuet doubtless want their sitting room back.”

“Nonsense, it’s been a pleasure,” Bossuet said. “Hasn’t it, Joly? We ought to entertain more often. Perhaps Enjolras will even deign us with his presence next time. You missed a rather good party, you know.”

“Ought I to be pleased that you are making jokes about this already?” Enjolras asked. 

“Oh yes,” Bossuet said. “I only joke about serious matters. I wouldn’t waste what little wit I have on trivialities. When a man has only his wits to live on, he takes very good care of them.”

“I shall look forward to seeing the evidence of that in future. Eight isn’t too early for you, Feuilly?” Enjolras said, getting back to the topic at hand. 

“Not at all.” Feuilly reached out a hand to Prouvaire. “Shall I walk you home, Jehan? It’s on my way. You too, Courfeyrac – if you’re worried about expiring en route?” 

The three of them fetched their boots and coats departed together, but not before Bossuet had pressed what remained of last night’s dinner on Feuilly (“Simply because you won’t have time for breakfast”) and Courfeyrac had a firm promises of house calls and confectionery from Joly that afternoon. Joly tried to protest that he really wasn’t properly well yet and ought not to risk his health on ingratiates like Courfeyrac – but yielded when Jehan began to sneeze, which made Joly feel rather guilty, but did at least prompt Combeferre to chivvy them out the door.

“Maybe they oughtn’t to come to the meeting?” Joly said. “I wouldn’t want them to get any worse. Courfeyrac is being melodramatic, of course - ”

“Nothing like you,” Bossuet interjected.

Joly stuck his tongue out at him before continuing. “But Jehan did look rather poorly. And you kept me in bed all day yesterday.”

“There is a world of difference between running around Paris in the cold, and sitting by the fire in the Musain with a glass of wine,” Bossuet said. “Besides, I’m sure Courfeyrac can convince Louison to make them quite comfortable.”

“Yes, he is rather persuasive when it comes to things like that,” Combeferre added, drawing Enjolras away from an animated discussion he was having with Bahorel in the other corner of the room. Bahorel was wearing one of his boots, but was holding the other in his hand, Enjolras clearly having been struck by a thought that would not wait when Bahorel was half-way through putting them on. “I though we agreed to talk over breakfast?”

“My apologies,” Enjolras said, stepping back to allow Bahorel to finish dressing. “I hope you’re feeling better tonight, Joly,” he added, retying his cravat. 

“I feel better already,” Joly replied. Enjolras gave a sharp nod, and then made to leave, before turning back, as though he had forgotten something.

“And I’ll see you tonight too, Grantaire?” he asked. For an instant, the bitterness disappeared from Grantaire’s smile. But only for an instant.

“If I’ve nothing better to do,” he said. Enjolras’s mouth twitched and his eyes hardened, but he said nothing and departed, Bahorel and Combeferre in his wake. 

This left only Grantaire, who seemed suddenly to become aware that he was the only person left in the room who didn’t live there, and shuffled a little where he sat.

“I suppose I ought to be off too,” he muttered. Thinking back to their conversation last night, Joly glanced over to Bossuet, who gave a shrug that suggested the decision was Joly’s alone.

“Why don’t you stay for breakfast?” Joly said. “We’d enjoy your company. If you’d like to, that is.”

Joly’s offer was not greeted with the expression of joy which had followed Enjolras’s slim praise, but Grantaire looked genuinely pleased nonetheless. “An invitation from the pair who profess themselves to be the hosts of the newest and the strangest Paris salon? Don’t tell Enjolras, though. He’d take you to task for propagating such a bourgeois institution. We, however, are of the baser sort – you might well tell me to speak for myself Laigle de Meaux, but I know you are of my kind – and we of the baser sort must have our pleasures. I’m not ready for the monastery yet, and thus I accept – on the condition that you let me provide the cuisine. I know the perfect place, and it’s not far from here. The owner knows me intimately, although not as intimately as I know his wife, and he’ll give me a good price.”

Bossuet threw a key towards him, which Grantaire caught deftly. “I never refuse a free meal, so I accept on behalf of us both.”

“How many bottles of wine do you think he’ll bring back?” Joly asked, once the door was safely closed behind Grantaire. 

“I’d almost say that he’s too drunk on Enjolras’s thanks to require anything else,” Bossuet replied. He shook his head sadly. “Poor Grantaire.”

The two friends sat together on the small sofa, in the steadily brightening room, Joly leaning his head on Bossuet’s shoulder, occasionally breaking the companionable silence with a soft sniffle. After some time had passed, Joly suddenly felt Bossuet’s palm press against his forehead: warm, roughed, and wonderfully familiar. Joly laughed in surprise.

“What are you doing?” He looked up a Bossuet, who gave a bashful sort of smile.

“You said you were feeling better, but you’ve been ever so quiet since the Grantaire left. I wondered if your fever was back. But you don’t feel too warm.” Bossuet titled his head questioningly.

“No, I was just thinking,” Joly replied. “Besides, you were being quiet too.”

“I was taking my lead from you.”

“I wouldn’t advise that at all. I’m a terrible influence. I’d probably drag you into sedition, dissipation and sexual depravity.”

“You make it sound very exciting. I think I shall stay with you another week at least,” Bossuet said, ruffling Joly’s hair as he laughed. “Now, what were you thinking about?”

"Nothing much."

"Jolllly..."

“Only about what you were saying last night about friendship and Republicanism. I agree with you entirely, of course, about the latter springing from the former. They didn’t include ‘fraternity’ just because it rhymed, although that was rather fortunate. But I was thinking how lucky I am that the two things came together in my case.” Joly could feel his hands beginning to shake slightly. Perhaps his fever had returned after all, but, for once, Joly didn’t think the trembling was a sign of illness. He took a deep breath, hoping that it wouldn’t spread to his voice, and continued. 

“I mean, I believe in the Republic, and in France, and in our ideals more than I’ve ever believed in anything else in my entire life. Certainly more than the Church. I’m not sure I ever really believed in that. I wasn’t one of those darling children mumbles sincere prayers whilst their parents listen at the door and smile. My father gave me access to his library at a far too early an age for any of that. I was the one who asked Monsignor awkward questions about exactly what Lazarus looked like if he’d been dead for four days.” 

Bossuet laughed at this. “Yes, I can imagine you were quite the little Enlightenment empiricist. Did you set your magnets on him too?” 

Joly managed a smile. “Not quite. But I even believe in the Republic more than I believe in some scientific theories. Definitely more than some of what I’m taught in the medical school. Sometimes, I find myself sitting in a lecture, taking notes as to what the professor is saying, and all the while I’m thinking - this can’t be true, you old fool. I’m a decidedly average student and even I’ve worked that out. Within ten years, someone who is cleverer than both of us put together will have come along and proved you absolutely wrong. And it will probably be Combeferre, knowing him.” Suddenly, Joly found that it was far too painful to keep looking at Bossuet when he spoke, and instead dropped his eyes, staring at his fingers as he twisted his handkerchief around them.

“But I never feel like that when Combeferre is explaining the importance of education, or when Jehan is reciting one of his political poems, or when we’re all discussing why even the most liberal of monarchs is, by the very nature of monarchy itself, a limit on freedom. And every time I listen to one of Enjolras’s speeches, I know that - however I might question his methods - the core of what he argues for is perfectly true and perfectly right. And I’m willing to die to achieve it. But after last night, I also know that if you came to me tomorrow, and told me that you had had enough of revolution, and asked me to leave Paris with you – I would do so in a heartbeat. If I had to choose between a Republic and my best friend, I’d choose the latter.” Joly swallowed and finally looked at Bossuet once more. “Does that make me a terrible person?”

Bossuet placed both of his large hands over Joly’s, quieting their frantic motions.

“No,” he said softly. “It makes you very, very human.” He squeezed Joly’s hands. “And I have no doubt that I would do the same, but the thought has never troubled me for long because I know that you would never ask that of me, would you?” 

“No, I wouldn’t,” Joly said, knowing that it was true.

“And nor I you. So you rest easy in that at least.” Bossuet said. He must have meant to be reassuring, but Bossuet suddenly looked so sad that Joly thought something must be terribly wrong.

“Bossuet? What is it?”

It was Bossuet’s turn to lower his eyes. “I am not as thoughtful as you, Joly, and I have less to lose, and I am more accustomed to loss. Nevertheless, these days, I try not to think about anything for too long. I find it makes things harder.”

As Joly gently titled Bossuet’s head upwards, so that their eyes met, Joly wondered how he would put into words everything that he had felt yesterday. He would have to explain that he had come to understand about how hearts could be dissected whilst they beat in your chest, and to realise that his own death was the one he feared least of all. That he knew now that bravery was easy; at least, it was easy compared to allowing someone else to be brave, which was almost unbearably painful. And he had just about found a way to start saying all of this, when he heard the front door slam shut, and Grantaire’s footsteps ascending the staircase.

So, instead, Joly smiled. 

“That’ll be Grantaire,” he said, words which seemed as good as any others.

Bossuet squeezed his hands once more, and smiled back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just thought I'd add that when I was looking up the Paine quotations, I found the following line in the same pamphlet (American Crisis 1): 'I dwell not upon the vapors of imagination; I bring reason to your ears, and, in language as plain as A, B, C, hold up truth to your eyes'. I'm certain its not an analogue that Hugo intended, but it made me smile.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who has stuck with this; all comments and feedback much appreciated.


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